I AM stunned by the number of friends who are actively seeking love online.

Is computer dating a reliable means of finding a life-partner? I think not. That’s why so many IT workers are single and into Star Wars.

Take it from me, no computer wizardry can match the feeling of walking up to a woman, seeing her giving you the once-over, then sneering: “In your dreams.”

Some I approached on beer-splashed dance floors were polite enough to deliver a frosty ‘no thank you’, while looking uncomfortably into the distance. I do that when harangued by persistent street sellers.

Apparently, there’s now no stigma attached to signing with a dating agency. In my salad days, two kinds of people resorted to lonely hearts columns: fat and ugly and fat or ugly.

Now matchmaking websites are the favoured haunts of business executives, too busy to seek romance through traditional methods. Companies, using fluffy publicity blurb, find an acceptable way of saying on your behalf: “I haven’t got time to take you out for a meal, so here’s an email. Hopefully, if my next boardroom meeting doesn’t drag on, we can have sex later. Byeee.”

And it works.

Ferreting

A TV commercial currently doing the rounds alleges 15 per cent of Americans met their partners via computer. That stuns me. I’ve immediately erased the unwanted, illicit ‘pop-ups’ that blight my machine. If I’d known I could take these Eastern Bloc women home and keep them…

A captain of industry in our village openly admits he’s seeking a soulmate on the net. “You miss female companionship,” he confided. “I want to come home to the smell of cooking. I want a women waiting impatiently on the doorstep to hug me when I return after a hectic day.”

My wife was waiting impatiently on the doorstep when I returned after a hectic day. She wanted to chastise me for not taking the bin out.

“Listen, Steve,” I told the millionaire, “with your wonga you could afford the most high-class callgirl. Why bother with lonely hearts sites?”

“Crikey!” he stammered, eyes widening. “You’re absolutely right – and I wouldn’t have to pretend not to smoke.”

His mood darkened. “But what about the smell of cooking?”

“Bung her a few extra quid and she’d probably knock up a flan,” I advised.

“Mike,” he babbled, grasping my hand, “you’re a genius. I promise I‘ll scour the deepest portals of my hard drive for the most beautiful prostitute going.”

Just call me Cupid.

I was touched recently to discover Old Tom, now in his 80s, has resorted to seeking an internet mate in an attempt to fill the gaping hole left by the death of his wife, Edith. With the help of a young relative, he’s posted details with an agency. I’ve warned the codger to be wary of breaching advertising standards.

“Whatdya mean?” he asked.

“Well,” I explained, choosing my words carefully, “even in very poor light you wouldn’t pass for 52 and the picture is misleading. If I’m not mistaken, your head has been stuck on Sly Stallone’s torso. The image is from Rambo: First Blood.”

“What if I get my nephew to stick on some grey chest hair?” Old Tom suggested. “He’s a wizard with computers.”

“And airbrush out the crossbow over your shoulder,” I added. “Perhaps replace it with a brace of pheasant.”

“I’ve already met three lovely ladies,” confided the pensioner. “It’s all so wonderfully cloak-and-dagger. We have to arrange where and when to meet and I have to tell them what I’ll be wearing.

“Last time I wrote: ‘I’ll be the one with a white carnation tied to my Zimmer frame’.

“She simply responded, ‘I’ll be the one smelling slightly of wee’.”

None of the ‘lovely ladies’ have wanted to see Old Tom again – and not just because he took them ferreting.

“I talked about my beloved Edith too much,” he admitted. “You didn’t show them the wedding photos?” I asked.

“They were OK with the wedding album,” Old Tom insisted, “but they didn’t like me getting the urn out. I keep it on the back seat of my Allegro.”

I cast a stunned glance at the OAP. “You handed them your wife’s ashes?”

Old Tom grimaced. “Luckily, one thought it was potpourri, but a lady called Hazel used it as an ashtray during the entire journey.”

He tutted and looked world-weary. “She never rang again.”

“But,” he added, brightening, “every cloud has a silver lining. Remember how frail Edith was in the latter years? Well, I do believe she’s finally put some weight on.”